


All That We Shared

by stardropdream



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Episode Related, M/M, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-28
Updated: 2015-03-28
Packaged: 2018-03-20 01:43:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3631908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>But that is not the last Porthos sees of Aramis. No, the last he sees of Aramis is later that night - when there is still so much he could yet say to Aramis, and yet neither of them can quite manage to do so. “I,” Aramis begins and stalls, looking down, “… I needed to say goodbye.” (Coda fic for 2x10)</p>
            </blockquote>





	All That We Shared

**Author's Note:**

> This is entirely [JL's](http://jlarinda.tumblr.com/) fault - as we both have decided on the headcanon that Aramis comes back in 2x10 after his goodbye scene with the boys to give a 'proper' goodbye to Porthos. I will go down with this headcanon. 
> 
> Also, she drew a super beautiful pic for this story [and you should definitely go look and cry about it with me](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/114849497329/my-love-he-whispers-against-his-temple-then).

It still hurts. Of course it would. It’s hardly been a few hours and every time Porthos thinks of it, there’s a dull ache of denial that accompanies that sharp realization. He’s halfway through one bottle of wine and debating opening another to let it breathe when there is a knock at the door. 

That, at least, is not a surprise. He’d know that knock anywhere and he takes a steadying breath before he just lurches towards the door – opens it wide.

The worst of it is when he opens the door and it’s Aramis – of course it’s Aramis. But it’s Aramis without his cloak, without his weapons, without his pauldron. He’s bared down, his clothing simple. Already one step into piousness. That, more than watching Aramis walk away with the leaves falling across the road as if it were any other day in autumn, as if it were any other day and he wasn’t breaking apart with every step between them – that is what gets Porthos to stop breathing. 

They look at each other, silent, and there have been so many times in the past, so many times in their lives, when words were not needed between the two of them. Where words were not needed to be understood. Porthos is thankful for it now, knows he can’t trust his voice – knows that, despite that, Aramis understands what he does not say. It is a blessing, in its own way. As well as a detriment, a steady thud of knowing you cannot convince the other. 

“May I come in?” Aramis asks, and what a farce it is that he should ask at all, when he knows the answer, when he wouldn’t have come here now if he didn’t know the answer—

So Porthos steps back, not able to meet his eye. _Coward_ , he thinks, when he knows that Aramis so desperately wants to look at him – but he’s stepping back and away, opens the door wider. Aramis steps through, shuts the door behind him, turns the lock, leans against the heavy wood of the door and looks at Porthos – who cannot meet his eyes. 

“I,” Aramis begins and stalls, looking down, “… I needed to say goodbye.” 

“You did already,” Porthos manages because he can’t say what he wants to say – can’t say _don’t go._ Knows he won’t ask it. Knows that Aramis knows it already. 

“Properly,” Aramis amends, voice thin and quiet, still leaning against the door, still looking at him – and Porthos lifts his eyes and meets his gaze, as solid and steady as he can manage. Porthos feels he’s shaking apart but Aramis is deathly still, hands tucked behind his back, eyes unbearably sad and decades older than they were even yesterday. 

Porthos glances away, not sure what to say, turns as if to reach for the bottle of wine and offer Aramis a drink – and Aramis reaches out and catches him by his sleeve instead. He lurches forward in his step, but holds himself still and looks up at Porthos like he is at once caught and yet trying to get away. 

_Don’t go,_ Porthos wants to say and doesn’t. 

Porthos looks at him, says nothing, still can’t fully trust his voice – hates to swallow down all the things he doesn’t say. Hates to swallow down what he wants to say but won’t – the things that Aramis must already know. 

Don’t go. Stay. Please. It won’t be the same without you. Please. 

Please. 

Aramis takes a deep breath, his hand flexing against Porthos’ sleeve, and he takes a step closer – and seems to make up his mind. 

“Will you let me?” Aramis asks. His voice shakes, the only think shaky where he is otherwise steady. “Say goodbye?” 

_Goodbye_ hinges on the air between them and Porthos sucks in a sharp breath. He knows his expression must crumble because he pinpoints the exact moment Aramis’ recognizes heartbreak, sees the way his eyes widen, the way his lips thin, the way his breath hitches. How desperately Porthos wants to speak in that moment, how desperately he wants to _beg_ and to reassure. 

And yet he doesn’t. Instead, he just nods, licking his lips because he cannot trust his words – because he cannot trust not to break down and sob. 

Aramis’ breath comes out in a small hiss and he takes another step towards Porthos until he is in his space. His hand slides up his arm.

“Porthos,” he says, because he won’t ask Porthos to speak – but Porthos knows how badly Aramis wants to hear his voice. 

“This…” Porthos breathes out, his voice shaking far more than his hands ever could. “Won’t this be worse?” 

Aramis is shaking his head, though, his hands coming up to rest against his chest – not to push him away, but to act as point of contact, fingers splayed out and fiddling with the lace of his collar. With a pang, Porthos realizes it’s a shirt that Aramis chose for him _because_ of that lace, because he said it made him look handsome. It was so long ago now. Aramis swallows and tips his chin up, looking up at him. 

“Do you remember what I told you, the first night we ever spent together?” Aramis asks, another time again so long ago – years and years in their past, but remembered fondly. 

Porthos remembers a lot of things about that night – remembers being loose-limbed, drunk on happiness and wine – his first birthday in the regiment, his first birthday where he felt he belonged – Aramis draped over his shoulders, smelling of melon and liquor, his breath hot against his ear. They’d stumbled and dragged themselves against each other, Porthos knocking his elbows everywhere, Aramis stubbing his toes and laughing like the world was all for him, his stubble dragging against Porthos’ shoulder as he giggled. They’d laughed and they’d giggled and they’d had positively sloppy and uncoordinated sex and Porthos had woken up in the morning in a daze with Aramis draped over him like a cat in the sunlight. 

Porthos shakes his head, and Aramis smiles – wan, but gentled with the memory. He says, quiet but firm, “I told you that this could never be a sin.” 

Porthos’ eyes go soft – because he remembers that, too, remembers pulling Aramis aside afterwards, telling him that he understood if it were a mistake, pegging Aramis for the religious type, for the skittish type. Aramis had staggered under his hold, but not out of guilt – but rather for desire. And he’d whispered the words out like a hot promise against his mouth as he kissed him back into silence – that they are not a sin, that his God would love Porthos, that there was only joy and belonging in finding a missing piece in your life. Porthos had found it sentimental then, but a quiet part of him had been grateful to be wanted, to be needed, and he’d melted into Aramis and said the words back. 

“I still believe that,” Aramis says now, and as close as he is now, Porthos can properly see that Aramis isn’t calm at all – that his fingertips are shaking and his eyes are glassy. Porthos knows that he must look the same, his eyes puffed up with his own tears – shed in the privacy of his own misery, but blatant now to the man who knows him better than anyone. “I still believe it,” Aramis repeats as he closes the distance, breathing out against his lips, “Our –” he pauses, looking uncertain, and then powers on, determined and pained: “our love could never be a sin.” 

There’s a jag in his heart that pierces at him at the mention of love, and he makes a soft, wounded sound – a cornered animal – and drags his hands around Aramis, drags him in close, and kisses him breathless. He clenches his eyes shut to will away the tears because he _won’t_ cry in front of him. He won’t. 

He remembers the first time they ever spoke of it – of loving each other. Aramis had said it in all but his words – through his touch, his kiss, his smile, the press of his forehead to his. It was Porthos who had first breathed it out between their mouths, Aramis barking out a surprised, self-deprecating laugh. And then Porthos had tugged him down and shown him just how loved he was. Afterwards, Aramis breathed it out against the curve of his jaw and they’d both smiled, delirious with happiness. 

_Don’t go,_ Porthos doesn’t say, but speaks it through his kiss now – deep and demanding and present, a drag of lips against lips, letting Aramis swallow his breath, lick at his mouth, breathe out against the teeth tugging against his lip. _What do I do without you?_

If Aramis can hear the words Porthos doesn’t say – and oh, he must, he must hear it – he responds only through a deep breath, a flex of his hands against his chest, half-curling into fists, and focuses on moving slowly, deeper, against him. There is no time, and yet Aramis kisses him like they have all the time in the world. 

_I love you, too,_ he says with the kiss to the corner of his mouth, the drag of his mouth along Aramis’ jaw, his breath jagged and uncertain. He doesn’t say the words, knows them for the anchor they are, knows that Aramis will drift away all the same and saying it feels all the worse, feels like manipulation rather than reassurance. But he loves him still. 

He can’t say a word – not really. He can’t speak, can’t say what he would – can’t demand Aramis to stay, can’t tell him to turn his back on his vow, on his promise, on his honor – knows what this means to him. 

He cups Aramis’ jaw, tips it up, kisses his bottom lip and breathes out his name, each syllable a shaky exhale. 

He can’t say a word – not really. He can’t risk each broken breath turning into a sob, can’t risk breaking down – can’t risk letting that be the last Aramis sees of him. Can’t risk dragging him into his own guilt, his own sadness, his own pain. 

So instead he just kisses him because that – that, at least, he can do. 

It’s chilly in the room, but Porthos knows that’s not the reason he’s shivering when Aramis pushes a little, moves him back, presses him down against the bed and climbs up over him. 

“If I must renounce this life,” Aramis whispers, and there’s no mistaking the tears in his eyes now – and Porthos can count on one hand the number of times he’s seen Aramis cry – “Let you be my last, Porthos.” 

Porthos swallows, wavers, reaches his hands up to touch his hair and watches the way Aramis arches and melts into the touch, his hands lifting to touch at Porthos’ wrists. Porthos licks his lips, tries to speak – tries to ask him if it’s really alright, _is this really what you want_ , and unable to finish the words before they even leave his throat. He knows the answer, knows how Aramis would answer – _with all my heart_ , and he can’t bear to hear that again. 

Aramis, at least, seems to understand, because his eyes soften and he whispers to him, “This cannot be a sin. Love cannot be a sin.” 

And there it is again. Love. Something thuds in his chest and Porthos makes that same wounded sound, arches up and catches his mouth in his – kisses him like he’s drowning. He’s sinking down, pulling Aramis with him, wraps his arms around him and tethers him there, unable and unwilling to let go of him – not now, not just yet – and it’s as if Aramis is in every bit of his senses. His touch, his breath, his little sigh, that little whimper he makes when Porthos traces down his back – and God, how well he knows Aramis, how well Aramis knows him—

And this will be their last time. 

Porthos breaks off the kiss with a choked little cry, and Aramis leans forward, presses his forehead to his, fingers stroking over his cheeks, although no tears fall, and they stay like that. Their breathing heavy, their eyes closed – Porthos just breathes him in, memorizes the sound of his breath, the touch of his lips against his, the feel of his body crushing down on his. He’ll never have this again. 

_Don’t go,_ Porthos doesn’t say, but breathes it out in a pained little sob. 

_I’m here,_ Aramis doesn’t say in return, but means with each stroke of his thumbs across his cheeks. _And I’ve got you._

When Porthos opens his eyes again, Aramis’ eyes are flickering over him, sympathetic. Porthos can’t breathe – reaches up and cups Aramis’ cheek. Aramis closes his eyes and leans into that touch, his own fingers lifting to splay out over Porthos’ knuckles and holding still against him. _I love you,_ the touch says because neither can truly speak it. 

Aramis shifts, straddles him, coaxes up Porthos’ hands ( _touch me_ , he says with that movement) to stroke over his sides and along his back, his large hands moving to his shoulders, thumbs pressing to the bare skin around his neck. Aramis arches, shivers, tips his head back and closes his eyes but not before Porthos sees the way his eyes water. Just this is too much. Just this. 

Porthos drags his hands down, almost mechanical if not for the force he moves, desires, needs – needs him, needs this to last, needs this to be enough—

Porthos’ hands push up under Aramis’ shirt, palms flat against his chest and the softness of his belly and Aramis shudders, letting Porthos’ hands drag up, obediently lifts his own arms so that Porthos can slip the shirt off with a practiced ease between the two of them, stilted only for the knowledge that this is the last time that Aramis will be undressed by another, the last time Porthos will touch him. 

They look at each other, the silence stretching, both resisting that deep, unsettling need to just tear into each other, to cling, to be frenzied, to be desperate and melt into that desperation. Instead, Porthos’ hands shake with the effort to make it last, each touch a slow drag, each piece of clothing drawn from him as carefully as he can manage. Porthos has never been one for patience – has always balked and moaned and cursed whenever Aramis teases, taking his time, coaxing him through his orgasm like it were any lazy day – but now he understands it, now he wants the same, now he fears the end. 

Porthos sits up a little, leans in closer to Aramis, presses a fierce, sucking kiss against Aramis’ neck, drags his mouth down to bite at the slope of his collarbone and listens to the sharp whine in Aramis’ throat – and that, that is something painful, too. Just as painful as the grip of Aramis’ hands in his hair, the sharp slump of his breath as he bows into Porthos, sinks against him, seeks his support. _I’ve got you,_ Porthos wants to say and doesn’t, and so he shifts his hands to anchor against his back, to hold him down close, to kiss down along the dip of his throat, over his chest, press his forehead to his heart because somehow that is less painful than speaking the words. 

Aramis’ hands soothe through his hair, to the back of his neck, kneading once, before he pulls at Porthos’ shirt, strips him down bare as well. His hands ghost over him, touch and savor, his fingertips dragging down over every scar as if to tell him again and again how beautiful he finds Porthos, just how beautiful he’s always found Porthos – and this time Porthos cannot scoff at it because he is too busy swallowing down the pained little breath at the thought of that. He remembers their arguments – silly, inconsequential things, Aramis praising him from top to toes, Aramis pronouncing Porthos to be the most handsome man he’s ever known, after himself. Porthos scoffing, laughing, blushing – ultimately turning it back on Aramis: that no one is as beautiful as Aramis. It’d be enough to make anyone gag, to witness it. Now it just leaves him shivering. 

Aramis draws back, presses his forehead to his. He lifts his eyebrows in a silent question and Porthos blinks and then lowers his eyes to gaze at the small curve of Aramis’ lips, the soft breath. Aramis almost smiles, hands moving own his chest and him following – ducking to kiss over the most prominent of his scars, all tongue and teeth and mouth. The smile is not as easy as it usually is, but Porthos trusts the happiness is the same – that Aramis has always worshipped the shape of Porthos’ scars. Porthos breathes out, a low rumbling growl at his core, and feels Aramis’ mouth against his skin – his head ducking lower and licking at each scar, teeth grazing just enough to remind Porthos that he could mark him all over. He feels Aramis’ smile, brittle as it is, disappear with each swipe of his mouth – finding no happiness in leaving Porthos. Porthos presses his forehead down, curls his arms around Aramis and holds him close, bows into him. 

Tonight, though, even that feels like too much – and he can’t articulate, can’t say that even that much feels too far away, and so he touches at Aramis’ hair, tugs once. Aramis looks up, seems to understand. He hums out a little and moves back up to Porthos, kisses his eyelids and his cheeks, his jaw and his lips, lingering each time, long and precise. His hands move down over Porthos, his fingers moving with practiced ease to remove the last of their clothes until they are pressed, flushed and naked, against one another. 

“It’s alright,” Aramis whispers against his mouth when Porthos’ breathing comes out too sharp. “You’ll be alright, my love.” 

And Porthos wants to protest, but the words don’t come – and the sound he makes is pained. Porthos cups his face, thumbs digging into the hollows behind Aramis’ ears and drags him in close, kissing him deep and breathless – because that is a better way to express what he can’t say. His hands are shaking and he knows that Aramis can feel it – and they both know, they both know deep down that it is far from alright. 

_Don’t go,_ Porthos does not say. 

When Porthos breaks the kiss, he’s swallowing down deep gulps of air, breath fluttering and shaking. Aramis looks at him, pained and uncertain, his eyes glassed over again. He peppers small kisses over Porthos’ face and Porthos closes his eyes, tilts his head up against his attentions as Aramis slowly rocks his hips forward. Porthos isn’t hard yet, but the movements are enough to cajole him in the direction, and he wraps his arms tight around Aramis and rocks back, clinging to him now.

“My love,” Aramis whispers quietly, as if he cannot get his fill, as if pressing the word out as many times as he’s able before he isn’t meant to anymore. “My love,” he says against the slump of Porthos’ jaw. _My love,_ he does not whisper against his temple, then the shell of his ear, but means all the same: _my love._ Porthos shakes his head, desperate to hear more and desperate for him to stop. He almost protests but Aramis stops him, presses his forehead to his, his breath short and broken. “If – if I must give up all earthly connections, then you must know what I leave with you.” 

Poetry, perhaps, to hear the words – but they’re broken up between his breaths, between the kisses he presses to Porthos’ mouth. Porthos shakes his head, his head clouded over with thoughts of Aramis, with the desperate need to not think about him being gone, of being left only with a shadow or a ghost. 

Aramis takes up one of Porthos’ hands, presses it between them so Porthos’ large hand splays out over Aramis’ chest, feels the dull, frenzied beat of Aramis’ heart. 

“My love,” he says again, and Porthos’ fingers curl. Aramis rocks forward, kisses the corner of his mouth, breathes out a shuddering, pained gasp. “I leave my heart with you. You must know that – you must.” 

His other hand comes up, cups Porthos’ face, strokes his thumb over his cheek. Porthos focuses on breathing, forces down his tears through sheer force. His tears, his crying – it will do no good. He refuses, utterly, to break down. He refuses, utterly, to let that be the last Aramis sees of him. 

Porthos knows he should say something – knows that Aramis wants to _hear_ him. But the words do not come. Between them, there has always been laughter, softly spoken words as they press together. Joy and familiarity. Now, Porthos hardly speaks at all. 

“Will you carry it for me?” Aramis asks, and he sounds uncertain – as if he can’t already know, as if he doesn’t already realize that Porthos carried it for him long ago, without protest, without fear, without any burden. 

He presses that declaration to Aramis’ mouth, breathes out the small _yes, always_ , because he can’t manage to speak it louder, can’t manage to shout it. He doesn’t tell Aramis that he’s taking Porthos’ heart with him, as well, because he has never been good with the words Aramis whispers so sweetly, because he couldn’t stand to hear Aramis say what he would say: that he shouldn’t carry it, that Porthos should move on, that he will be better off without Aramis. 

This, at least, he can do for Aramis. This, at least, he will do – steady and eternal, housing the heart that Aramis has to leave behind, all the loves he’s lost and cannot claim for his own. He fits into Aramis’ heart and his love, and he will protect it with all he has – every single one of the loves he’s had to say goodbye, and yet can only kiss Porthos now. That, at least, he can do for him. 

Porthos sinks into the next kiss. He sucks and bites at Aramis’ lower lip, tugging a little with his teeth, swallowing Aramis’ small gasp down – knowing how he loves that feeling. He focuses on that – kisses him deeply, kisses his forehead and his nose and his mouth – kisses him because that, at least, is easy. Because that, at least, he can do without fear of weeping. Aramis sinks against him, melts against him, arches against him. 

“Shh,” Aramis soothes when Porthos makes a sound not unlike a whimper, and he bites and sucks at Porthos’ lips as he kisses him, brushes his fingers over him. “It’s alright, my love.” 

Porthos shivers, undone by the simple sentiment. Aramis coos out soft words, breathes between kisses, hardly anything consequential and yet enough to steal away Porthos’ breath in turn. 

He wants to make it last – and yet once they’re both stripped down like this, rocking against each other, it is a simple matter of Aramis reaching out, finding the jar of oil they’ve used so many times in the past, fitting so snuggly in the curve of his hand. They kiss again – deep and dirty and still desperate for it, all tongue and teeth. Aramis whines out and Porthos growls out in response, his entire body shuddering with the feel of Aramis pressed to him, with the weight of what’s coming in the morning not too far away. 

They fall into silence now. Words have little use for them – but now they are weighed down by the burden of what they do not say. Aramis goes quiet and needy, clinging to Porthos now. Porthos swallows down his tears and forces himself to breathe out evenly. 

Aramis pops the cork from the bottle with his teeth, pours the oil out onto Porthos’ waiting fingertips, and arches with a soft, pleased sound when Porthos obediently reaches back, curls into the curve of Aramis’ ass and presses to him, works him open gently – simple and practiced with it. Aramis arches, cock plumped up between the two of them. He rocks his hips forward into the hollow of Porthos’ hip and Porthos groans a little, watching him, breathing heavily. 

If he had the time, if they had the time – if there was still _time_ , he would spend hours working him open, coaxing him to orgasm, using his mouth and his hands and everything he has to offer. He’d drink down every one of Aramis’ sounds and cries and never let himself be sated, working into him until the morning came. As it stands, even this is overwhelming, and his hand shakes as he presses fingers into Aramis, spreads him open, feels the stretch as he works his fingers, curls them inside of him. 

_I’ll take care of you,_ he doesn’t say because Aramis already knows it – knows Porthos’ touch better than Porthos knows himself. Aramis arches, rolls his hips, curves his back because he is trusting, because he is pleased and in love and for a simple moment, their hitching breath is enough to distract them from the separation stretching out between them. 

Aramis groans around the kisses, bucks his hips forward and sighs out against Porthos’ mouth. He teases into Aramis, tries to soothe him, tries to do everything he can with the simple strokes of his fingertips, tries to convey that he loves him, that he understands, that he doesn’t resent his choices – he doesn’t, not really. He just hopes Aramis doesn’t know just how much his chest thuds with the thought of losing him, of never seeing him again – the thought of this being their last time. 

_I will love you always,_ he also doesn’t say – doesn’t want to sling that burden around Aramis’ neck. 

He cuts off the kiss with a soft, pained gasp and Aramis pauses, tilts his head, cups his face and presses their foreheads together. He understands. Of course he understands. 

“Porthos,” Aramis whines, once Porthos has worked him open, once he’s pressed up against him, slipped his cock slowly into him. Aramis clutches at his shoulders, kisses every inch of him that he can reach. It is the first true word he’s spoken in full minutes and Porthos drinks in the sound, longs to hear that sound always. 

Porthos rocks up – presses into him. He swallows down his words because there is still too much he can’t say – that he loves him, that he needs him, that he doesn’t want him to go. To tell Aramis that he is taking his heart with him sounds too much like accusation. To tell him that he’ll think of him every day sounds too much like guilt. To tell him he will watch over the woman he loves, the child he can never have, is too much like punishment. To speak of love, to speak of devotion, to speak of loyalty – it turns to acid in his throat, and so he swallows it down and says nothing at all. 

_Don’t go,_ he doesn’t say. 

Aramis kisses him. It is fleeting, because soon he pulls away, ducks his head, and gasps out against Porthos’ neck. 

He rocks his hips down, rolls his hips, shudders above him as he rides him out – and Porthos is large inside him, but Aramis is used to him, hands planted to his chest, head ducked forward, his breath coming out in shuddering little hiccups. When he lifts his head and looks at Porthos, he is crying. 

Porthos touches his cheek and Aramis leans into it, closing his eyes. If a tear slips past his clenched eyelids, Porthos does not judge him for it – couldn’t, not when he can barely see around the tears in his own eyes. He hates that they’re there. He inhales sharply, tries to force them down – the last thing Aramis needs is his tears. 

They move like this – like they were made to fit together, at ease with one another despite the heartbreak. Aramis anchors himself to him, sets the pace, rocks his hips down and shimmies a little to get Porthos in deeper. Porthos cups his hips, keeps him in place, and watches him like he is holy. 

He wants to make it last. But Aramis has always coaxed impatience from him, and just the steady rocking of his hips is enough to drag Porthos closer and closer to his release. He clenches his eyes shut, shakes his head just barely, shifts beneath Aramis – he grips him tight, stilling him a few times to curb the onset of his orgasm. He guides Aramis along, cupping his hips and sliding him up and down over his cock, Aramis’ thighs clenching with the work of it. 

After the fifth time doing so, Aramis shakes his head and leans in closer to him. Aramis cups his jaw, painfully sweet, presses his forehead to his. “Porthos, my love. Let go. It’s alright. Just let go.” 

But Porthos is stubborn, can’t breathe, can’t even see Aramis around the tears and he shakes his head – can’t even speak, can’t even breathe. 

“Let go,” Aramis says again, and the razor-sharp edge of his desperation saturates his words as he rides against Porthos. 

Porthos holds him tight, tight enough to bruise – and that, at least, is something, something he can send Aramis away with, send him off to God with his own marks upon his devout servant’s skin, a mapping of all the blood and sweat and pain he’s felt for him, the detritus of love. Porthos’ devotion spelled out across Aramis’ skin in fingerprints. 

“I can’t,” Porthos says and it is breathless and a moment away from being a sob. _Don’t go_ , he doesn’t say, but knows Aramis understands with the way his fingers fan out across his cheeks, his thumbs touch his bottom lip. He clenches his eyes shut, his breath shuddering. “I don’t want to – I don’t. I don’t want to let go.”

 _I don’t want to let_ you _go,_ he doesn’t say but knows that Aramis understands with the hitch of his breath that has nothing to do with pleasure, nothing to do with the twist of his hips. Aramis does not cry easily, but Porthos has always been easier with the action, and so he lets the tears spill down his cheeks, knows that Aramis will not judge him for it even as Porthos hates himself for the display, knows already how difficult it is for Aramis to leave, knows how difficult it is for Aramis to give it all up. But Porthos has spent the day in near-tears, and it is too much now. 

Aramis kisses each eyelid, murmurs his name, whispers, “It’s alright. Go on. Come for me, Porthos.” 

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to.

“Let go.”

He doesn’t want to. 

But Aramis rocks his hips, slow and precise, and looks at Porthos with a surprising amount of calm despite the tears running down his own cheeks – and Porthos can’t help it anymore, grips Aramis tight and thrusts up to meet him, coming with a low gasp and an arch of his spine. Aramis rocks down to meet him, moves against him, his own breath short and weakened, wobbling around his muffled cries. 

Porthos fumbles, touches at Aramis’ chest, drags his hand down and curls around him in turn – and strokes him off to completion. They are a mess of sweat and come between them, tear tracks on their cheeks, and Aramis leans down to press against him chest to chest, uncaring of the mess. He kisses Porthos like he is a drowning man desperate for air, and Porthos cups the back of his neck, drags his thumbs along his jaw – kisses him because it will be the last time. 

He kisses him, steady but desperate, presses every unspoken word into his mouth and knows that Aramis hears it, knows that Aramis feels it. And through it all, he doesn’t want to say goodbye, doesn’t want this to be the last time. He can’t hold it back now, and he sobs out against Aramis’ mouth – feels Aramis’ responding sounds of anguish. 

He cannot blame him for his choice, can never stay angry with him despite all they’ve been through – but this is enough to leave him gasping for air in the dead of night, reaching for Aramis, dragging him down, wishing he still had a few more days, a few more weeks, a few more lifetimes to make it right. 

Aramis kisses him lightly as he guides Porthos into a painful sleep, and Porthos understands it for the goodbye it is. He touches at Aramis’ hair, slides his thumb along his jaw, touches at his throat and his chest and his hip. Memorizes him by smell and touch and sight, by kisses and breath. By the feel of teeth against his bottom lip and the slide of his hips against his. He memorizes him to last him a lifetime. 

It is only the next morning, when Aramis is gone and he is alone, that he wishes he’d said it all – because to house the words in his chest only for them to wither and shrivel is far more painful than speaking the words as a goodbye. 

“Don’t go,” he sobs as he flings his arms over his face, and his heart thuds hard in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found on my [tumblr](http://stardropdream.tumblr.com/) for whatever reason!
> 
> And for serious, go look [at the gorgeous art](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/114849497329/my-love-he-whispers-against-his-temple-then)! ;o;


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